


Waiting for the Gift

by jld_az



Series: Just Another Future Song [2]
Category: Chronicles of Amber - Roger Zelazny
Genre: (So much banter), (because it's the 70's), (but also they're kinda superhuman?), Banter, Body Worship, Canon Parallel w/ Copious Artistic License, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Jobs, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:07:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23572819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jld_az/pseuds/jld_az
Summary: Home remodeling leads to banter, revelations, and christening new spaces.Title from 'Sound and Vision' by David Bowie
Relationships: Martin / Ariaunna (OFC)
Series: Just Another Future Song [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1696642
Kudos: 2





	Waiting for the Gift

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first in a series of shorts following the development of Aunna and Martin's relationship. It is not required reading for my “And We Are Merely Players” series, but it does add flavour and character development, if you're into that sorta thing.
> 
> Also: There's porn. Fucking is kinda their thing. /g
> 
> Setting: Keene, Kentucky, Shadow Earth  
> Timestamp: March 1981

Martin considered the wall in front of him again, then the pile of foam baffle on the floor nearby, and determined he _may_ have underestimated the amount of work soundproofing required when technology wasn’t exactly on your side.

“Hey, A?” he called out over his shoulder.

From down the hall, he heard her muted, “Yea?”

“Got a sec?”

Martin moved to the door, and peered around it toward the master suite. Heard shuffling, then a small thump, then,

“Yea.”

He waited. She appeared a moment later - green plaid blouse tied in a knot above the midriff, cutoff shorts riding low across her hips and high around the thighs - and gave him a quizzical look. He jerked his head in a ‘come see’ motion.

“I could use a hand,” he said.

Aunna tightened her ponytail as she approached, smirking. “I thought this project was all _yours_ ,” she said.

“Don't be smug,” he retorted, tone light, snaking an arm out to block her path as she tried to enter the room. Her skin was warm, and slightly tacky with sweat. When she gazed up at him, he grinned beatifically.

“Hi.”

Her eyes narrowed shrewdly. “Hey,” she drawled. “Whatcha doin’ in here?”

“Makin’ a mess,” he confessed, dipping to give her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Brace yourself.”

She slanted him a feigned weary expression, but tilted into the affection even as she moved his arm aside.

“I thought the point of spring cleaning was to _get rid_ of the mess,” she said.

Martin chuckled, lifting the arm to let her pass. “And you’re remodeling the walk-in right now _why_ , exactly?”

“Touché.” Aunna glanced back at him, “Speaking of: How is it you own more boots than me? It’s obscene.”

He gasped with faux offense. “Slander!”

“Not if it’s true, Sue.”

And he _had_ a response lined up…

But then she was standing in the middle of the room, and her posture had gone slightly serpentine with her head to the side - one hand smoothing flyaways back from her forehead, the other idly tapping against her thigh - and his eyes were travelling the line of her with interest. Pressing up behind her to slide his hands over her hips and link them together across her exposed middle, Martin buried his nose into the join of her neck and shoulder; kissed the place until she melted slightly in his arms with a soft sigh, reaching up and behind to thread her fingers into his hair.

“Is this _really_ why you called me in here, though?” she breathed.

“Sorry, Daisy,” he murmured against her skin in reply. “Your duds distracted me.”

He let her go with a lingering kiss, and she ticked an eyebrow at him with a crooked smile before turning her attention back toward the room at large.

“I like the colour,” she said, indicating the walls with a gesture of one finger.

He smiled almost shyly, and gave a small nod. “Good.”

When he’d started this project a few weeks back, they'd been a sallow green, and the ceiling was a dingy eggshell. Both had only served to accentuate how desperately the walnut floors needed refinishing. Now three of the walls were a soothing cobalt, the baseboards and ceiling a creamy white, and the hardwood shone richly from care. The fourth wall - his current project - was covered in rippled foam tiles, pattern alternating between ash grey vertical and cloud white horizontal.

“So what can I help with?” she asked, nudging his shoulder with hers.

Martin pointed at the pile of acoustic foam. “I need to get that-” he redirected to the join of wall and ceiling “-there. But it’d be easier with two people, so…”

Aunna considered the logistics, the supply of tiles and double-sided tape. “Do you want me to prep, or place?”

“Your choice,” he shrugged. “We’ll need a ladder either way.”

She barked a laugh, and settled down cross-legged on the floor beside the pile. “There’s a three-step in the linen closet you can use, Shorty.”

Martin snorted. “Still taller’n you, doll,” he responded on his way out.

“Hey,” she hailed after him. When he bent back around the doorframe, she grinned. “Bring me a beer?”

Martin gave her a small chin up in acknowledgment before continuing toward the stairs.

Only-

“And a sandwich!”

He dropped his chin to his chest, smiling.

* * *

“It’s probably a bit late to be asking,” Martin said, reaching down to accept another piece of foam from her raised grasp. “But you _are_ ok with this, yes?”

Aunna fixed him with a blank stare, then rolled her eyes to take in the completed wall, the half-finished ceiling.

“‘A bit late’,” she repeated, gaze landing on him again. She let out a low laugh, and turned her attention to the next tile, shaking her head. “You’ve only been staking your claim on this room for _months_ , but yes, Marty. I’m ok with installing soundproofing.”

He was silent for a long moment, so she looked up at him again. Found him watching her - specifically, her fingers plucking at the protective backing of the double-sided tape - before resuming his task, lining up his tile with the others and pressing it to the ceiling.

“How far are you planning to go?” she asked, prepping the next piece.

“To the end of this row, I think,” he replied with a small gesture over her head. “I don’t want to kill the whole room, just block the atrium noise. And maybe not drive you crazy the next time I play the same riff eighty times.”

Aunna laughed, handing up another tile. “To be fair, last time I tuned you out after the twentieth.”

Martin accepted with a laugh of his own. “See, now that I know you mean ‘tuned you out’ _literally_ , the fact that you didn’t hear me calling you for dinner after makes _so_ much more sense.”

“I had to,” she intoned with affected gravitas, holding up a scarcely parted thumb and forefinger. “You were _thisclose_ to ruining ‘Refugee’ for me, and I wasn’t about to let that happen.”

When silence loomed, she looked over to find him staring again. So out of curiosity, she made a point of very carefully siding her thumbnail under a corner of the tape backing, pinching it against a knuckle, and peeling it away slowly, just to watch his eyes follow the motion; hear his breath hitch slightly. It flipped a little switch in her head, and she made a small, surprised sound.

“Who knew home renovation could be a turn-on,” she said, voice husky.

Martin shook himself out of his daydream, pinking across the cheeks as he stepped up to press the tile he’d been holding to the ceiling. And Aunna _almost_ laughed, but something about his reaction curbed hers. She reached out to tug lightly on the cuff of his jeans instead. He glanced down, meeting her gaze.

“Tell me,” she prompted.

“It’s .. not that,” he said, his eyes shifting to her lap, then back to the ceiling. “It’s your hands.”

Aunna dropped her focus, splayed her fingers and waggled them - palms up then down - over the tile balanced across her knees. “My hands?”

“I fantasize about your hands,” he admitted, unconcerned.

And while it seemed like an odd thing to share at the moment, she found the sentiment more pleasing than offputting.

Still-

“My _hands_?” she repeated, somewhat baffled. Because of all the bits of herself men had complimented over the years, her _hands_ -

“Quite a lot, actually.”

Her attention slid back to him; realized he was waiting patiently for the next tile. She took a moment to register how much was left before passing it up, and felt his index finger brush across hers as he accepted. It gave her an unexpected little thrill.

And he saw it. Must have. Because his expression tilted to curious, and it was goddamn adorable — head cocked, balanced on the top two of the three steps, one arm stretched up to hold the tile in place as the adhesive set.

“Has nobody ever told you that before?” he asked.

Aunna shrugged. “I can’t remember the last time someone said _anything_ about my hands that didn’t relate to fighting or horses,” she confessed.

“That’s a fucking tragedy, A,” he retorted, looking up as he gave the corners of the tile a final press.

His shirt had lifted up some in the pose, and she could make out the dip of his Adonis line where it disappeared into his jeans. She wanted to smooth her palm across it, slide up to press the heel of it into the flesh above his hip.

But then he was stepping down off the stool, and moving it where he could reach the last few spaces in one go. Aunna got to her feet; picked up the number of tiles he’d need to finish the job, and handed them to him in quick succession. When she stepped back to look at the completed product, the effect was slightly surreal, but more in a ‘meditation suite’ than ‘padded cell’ sort of way. When Martin moved next to her to take it in for himself, she slid a hand into his with a smile.

“So now what?” she asked.

He laced their fingers together, and brought the back of her hand up to his lips, meeting her gaze over their twined knuckles. “Wanna fool around?”

“Always,” she replied, tucking his hair behind his ear with her free hand. “Bed’s covered in clothes though.”

“Perfectly good queen in the guest room,” he countered, leaning into her touch as she stepped closer, pressing her front to his when he looped their arms behind him.

“I accept this compromise,” she conceded against his lips. 

* * *

The guest room was shadowy in the afternoon, being on the wrong side of the house for direct light this time of year. They created a spectacular tangle of the bedclothes while making out; ended up both of them topless, with her astride his thighs, knees bracketing his hips as she kneaded the flesh above them, thumbs stroking the V of his abdomen.

And he couldn’t explain it, really.

It wasn’t _all_ hands. It wasn’t cheirophilia.

It was _her_ hands.

And right now, her hands were smoothing a path up his bare torso, palming across his pectorals, tracing his clavicles with delicate fingers.

“What do they do?”

Her voice was pitched low, serene, and he lifted his gaze to find her watching the way his skin trembled slightly at her contact. After a slow blink, her eyes met his.

“When you think about my hands,” she clarified. “What do they do?”

Her tone was genuinely curious. He gave an honest answer.

“This,” he replied, breath hissing out at the end. “A _lot_ of this.”

Aunna hummed appreciatively. “Good thing I enjoy it too, then.”

Martin let his attention drift as her fingertips glossed over his shoulders, his biceps, his arms. A thumb circling the inside of his elbow dropped his mouth open with a quick inhale; brought up goosebumps, hardened his nipples, and made his own fingers twitch against the mattress.

“Jesus, baby,” she whispered, voice dreamy and detached and almost awed.

He groaned low in his throat, felt himself hardening at the unexpected pet name but he wasn’t going to overthink it, wasn’t going to think about it _at all_ because her hands had found his, slipped around to link them together, and she was sliding his arms in an arc across the rumpled linens to pin them above his head. Her body pressed down to cover his in the act, and she rolled her pelvis against him with a hungry mewl before pulling his lower lip into her mouth, trading it for a real kiss when he licked her upper lip in response.

Minutes passed this way — or maybe hours. He was lost in the curl of her body against his, the heat of her tongue in his mouth, long before her hands resumed their exploration. She sat up slowly as her fingers ran the length of his inner arms, from wrists to triceps; combed through the patch of hair in the hollows of his armpits with enough pressure to avoid being ticklish; turned outward to massage his lats, press between his ribs, thumb the underside of his pecs.

“Do you feel this?” she asked at one point, digits walking the line of his scar before she ran it beneath the heel of her palm.

“Sometimes,” he replied, and his voice was thick to his own ears. “Not usually, though.”

Aunna made a thoughtful sound. Martin felt her shift atop him, moving her seat closer to his knees, and he slit his eyes open - didn’t remember closing them in the first place, honestly - to watch her bend and trace her tongue over it. His eyes rolled back and closed again. He sucked air through his teeth, body tensing beneath her, and took hold of the brass rods of the headboard to keep from immediately grabbing her and flipping them over.

“God _damn_ the noises you make,” she moaned into his ribs, forehead rolling across his chest until it settled against his sternum. She pressed her lips to his torso, nuzzled the sparse hair there, then tilted her head up to rest her chin in it. Her hands splayed up his sides, and worked their way between his shoulders and the bed before curling fingers over his trapezius.

She gave a slight tug. Martin released the headboard and folded his arms around her at the wordless request. 

“Pause?” he asked.

“Gotta feed the horses,” she responded, voice tinged with regret. “And unless we plan on sleeping in here tonight, I need to finish the closet.”

He nodded, stroking her naked back before letting go. “Ok.”

Aunna pressed one last kiss to his chest, then rolled off of him and retrieved her shirt; tossed him his in the process. It landed across his straining jeans, and she gave him an apologetic smile.

“Need a minute?” she asked as she knotted her blouse beneath her breasts.

He chuckled and sat up; gave her a quick kiss. “I’ll survive, thanks.”

* * *

He’d offered to help her finish the walk-in after dinner, but she’d declined. All that was left was hanging clothes, and she had a strategy in mind that may have been problematic with two people working it.

She could hear him thumping around in his studio again as she worked — swore she’d heard a power drill from the barn, and was curious to follow-up on that. But that was his project though; _his_ space. He’d invite her down again when he was ready.

Sure enough, she was just putting the last few things into their new configuration when he appeared in the doorway with a,

“Hey do you _oh_ _wow_.”

Aunna looked up from her crouched position, and carefully closed the hidden drawer she’d relocated Feüermede into.

“Damn, A,” Martin continued, attention darting everywhere.

What was once a dark, almost cavernous overcrowding of heavy oak built-ins had been transformed into a well-appointed array of light pine cubbies, and creme-faced drawers with shiny brass fixtures. Martin stepped inside, riffled the collection of his shirts hanging on the right, opened a drawer on the left to confirm its contents, ran a hand across the white leather bench in the center of the space.

“I take back my shittalk,” he concluded. ”This was a _really_ good idea.”

“Thanks,” she chuckled. “Did you finish your studio?”

“I did,” he nodded, stopping in front of her and sliding his palms down her arms, taking her hands when he reached them. “Come see?”

Aunna hummed affirmatively, smiled, and rose up to kiss him. Let him lead her out of the closet, then guide her down the hall.

Before Martin had claimed it as his, the room had served as a catchall for items from Topanga that had aesthetic appeal, but hadn’t quite found a home here — a vintage wingback sofa, a trio of throw rugs, a hand hewn coffee table, a woven wicker basket chair.

Now he’d spread out the rugs in an overlapping, almost haphazard configuration; arranged the sofa, chair, and coffee table into a lounge area by the windows, which were currently hidden behind filmy white curtains. He'd hung a few familiar concert bills and framed prints from his place in Burbank, and strategically mounted his guitars; set up a stereo, mixing board, and recording area along the soundproofed wall.

What she'd done to the closet was pleasing, but primarily a functionality upgrade.

This, though. It was artistic; a serenely eclectic space. She kinda adored it.

“You win,” Aunna said. “I should let you revamp the downstairs office. Maybe update the sitting room while you’re at it.”

“Sure,” he replied amiably, trailing the back of a finger down her right arm. “Least I can do, considering.”

“Hey, no.” She took hold of his hand when it reached hers, and tugged herself into his space; directed his attention to her with fingers on his jaw, and met his gaze, decisive. “You owe me _nothing_ , Martin. Savvy?”

He looked a bit startled by her abrupt shift in tone, the intensity of her stare. So she forced herself to soften, and wrapped his arm around her back, ran her other hand down his neck and across his collar, tugged it aside to nuzzle at the base of his throat. After a moment, his arm tightened its hold, and she sighed contentedly; went a bit slack against him, but mouthed along the underside of his jaw until she reached the hinge of it.

“Wanna christen your new space?” she asked, lipping his earlobe before pulling it gently between her teeth. Martin let out a low growl, wrapped her hair around his fist, and gave a persistent tug until she looked at him.

“In so many ways, yes,” he said, trailing two fingers down her neck as he relaxed his hold, and draped the ponytail over her shoulder.

Her eyes darkened; narrowed. “Good.”

“I should warn you though,” he continued, slyly unknotting her shirt with his free hand as she rucked up his shirt with hers, “if you’ve never messed around in a dead room before, the lack of reverb can be a bit .. strange.”

Aunna tilted her head at him curiously, unfamiliar with the term; then looked over his shoulder at the tiled wall and shrugged.

“Guess we’ll have to find someplace with really excellent acoustics to make up for it later,” she said, grinning mischievously. “Besides, it’s only _partly_ dead, right? We can leave the door open, stick to this end, and get the hallway in on the act.”

Martin started laughing after ‘partly dead’, but stopped when she rolled a nipple between her knuckles. Then he was hissing.

“ _Fuck_.”

“Mmm,” Aunna hummed. “Yes, please.”

Something in his demeanour changed; went soft and hard at the same time. He straightened, loomed over her even as he snugged her against him, and (in a soothing purr) said,

“Thank you for asking nicely.”

And _fuck_ , that did something _visceral_. Her knees nearly buckled.

His fingers carefully pulled the elastic from her hair, combed through it to loosen the taught strands, massaged her scalp where it had been tightest. Her body responded by relaxing, mouth falling open and eyes sliding shut when she felt him leaning in.

Their lips moved together languidly, meeting and sliding and parting into a circular breath; a slick slip of tongues behind teeth until her insides had gone from simmering to scalding, and she was coiling to seize control of the situation. The hand under his shirt splayed out, started groping its way along his torso to pull at his fly. She felt him smile lazily.

“What are you after, sweetheart?” he asked against her lips.

“You,” she panted back, suddenly all fiery energy. “Want you in me.”

He pulled his mouth away to stare down at her, his expression reproving. “What happened to asking nicely?”

And there it was again, that deep spark of something _unexpected_ and _exciting_ and she wanted _more of that_ so-

“ _Please_ , baby.”

They both froze at the delivery - high, plaintive, _desperate_ \- and she saw him gearing up to ask if they needed to talk about this but _no_. She locked his gaze because _no they didn’t she meant it she kinda really wants it she’s here in this please_ -

Aunna saw the moment he understood; accepted that she was consenting. She nodded anyway, just to confirm.

Time went liquid when Martin released her and stepped back slowly, pulling his shirt off over his head and casting it aside. He reached out delicately to brush her opened blouse off her shoulders, and let it fall to the floor; hooked a finger into a belt loop and eased her closer; worked the button and zip before sliding the cutoffs down her thighs to pool at her feet, and took her hands to help her step out of them. She felt like she was floating, existing slightly out-of-body while he deliberately stripped her down. His eyes were so, so blue…

The fog lifted a bit when he dropped his attention between them, and brought her hands to his fly. It was a clear invitation that she was happy to accept and, given recent confessions, make a show of.

Aunna kept her motions fluid and precise in flipping back the button, pinching the zip between thumb and knuckle to draw it down, and parting the flaps to caress his hips before sliding the denim over his ass. She sank to her knees as it fell; lifted his left foot, and then the right to pull them free. Scanned her gaze up the length of his body and sat back on her haunches, finally meeting his eyes again with an impish grin.

She tilted her head toward his tented shorts. “May I?”

“Yes,” he clipped. Then, more measured. “Yes.”

And there was something endearing about the fact that he wasn’t completely secure in the role she’d let him take on, or that there were things she could offer which might be weak spots in his portrayal.

Aunna slid her fingers under the band of his shorts, worked them off the same way she had his jeans, and he kicked the pile unceremoniously aside when she’d finished. She took hold of him carefully then, pumped slowly a few times before rising up on her knees and licking the exposed head with the full flat of her tongue. Martin pulled in a sharp breath, and his fingers locked into her hair before she could do it again.

“Too much, sweetheart,” he exhaled, tilting his chin down to give her a smile. “Your hands are plenty.”

Which, ok, now that she knew his thing about her hands…

So she didn’t do it again. And she didn’t feign a pout. _And_ she didn’t give him sass. Instead, she walked her hands up his body and tugged on his forearms. A request: _Come down here, then_.

Martin let her help him to his knees, where she bracketed the left between both of hers, intentionally offsetting their bodies. His right hand reached up to tuck loose hair behind her ear and brush it over her shoulder; the other hand smoothed it along her spine before wrapping around her hip, forearm pressed to the small of her back; drew her toward him as he eased down onto his haunches, coaxing her to settle astride his thigh. Aunna followed his guidance, and burrowed her face into his neck with a sigh; ran her fingers up his nape into the soft blonde locks at the back of his head, and stroked the curve of his skull with her thumb. His chin tilted down, and he dropped his right hand to her thigh; mouthed breathily at her shoulder when she wrapped her left hand around him, and rested his forehead against it when she pulled with slow, steady assurance.

Her body made tiny, subconscious undulations with each stroke, and it was a pleasant torture not to just grind down on him, but rather focus on the velvety slide of him through her fingers; the blood hot core firming / thickening / pulsing beneath; the way he gradually lost control of his breathing until it was little more than a hitching, openmouthed gulp, clicking in his throat.

When it was, she smoothed her palm over the weeping head and whispered sweetly-

_“please”_

-and he was _gone_.

With a punched out groan, Martin fisted a hand into her hair, rearing her back and practically attacking her mouth when she gasped back at him.

He pulled her sideways to the ground, braced over her with an elbow next to her head, and pillowed her skull with his other palm as his lips mauled hers. She spread open when his knees demanded, hooked her thighs over his hips and reached down between them to aim him; bridged her spine and balanced on her shoulders as he arched forward, sliding in on a single stroke and she tucked her chin to her chest with a strangled gasp.

Her ears were ringing because every thrust was running him against that perfect spot, but she could hear him hissing behind it, murmuring and gritting out a thousand pictures with words - lyrical and euphemistic, music in his mouth - and her whole body was singing strung so tight ready to combust-

She dropped her head back to the floor and moaned, full-throated.

It sounded .. flat. Strange. _Dead_.

And she must’ve made a motion, or tensed up, or maybe he was just waiting for it, because Martin lifted his head and smoothed her damp hair back from her face; met her sour expression with a commiserating smile, and said,

“Yeah, I know.” His thrusts slowed to a dirty grind as he unbowed her spine, shuffling backwards on his knees until she was flat against the rug.

“You _did_ try to warn me,” she panted back, the sharp edge of orgasm suddenly dulled.

“Too distracting?” he asked, in all seriousness.

Aunna shrugged. “Maybe?”

Martin slowed to a halt. “‘Maybe’?”

“I mean,” she amended, because she _really_ didn’t want him to stop, but, “I’ll probably get used to it? Or figure out how to compensate for it? But right now, yeah, probably.”

Martin considered that a moment, then countered, “Can we try something real quick? Before we relocate?”

She tilted her head against the rug and gave a low chuckle. “Sure.”

“Good.” He pulled out, sat back on his haunches, and patted her outer thigh. “Turn over.”

When she gave him a slanted look, he dropped down and gave her a quick, reassuring kiss.

“Trust me. Turn over.”

He braced her on wide-spread knees when she did, folded her arms to pillow her head, but did it in a way that her breath came out in a heave, it left damp mist across her left breast as he slid into her.

“Oh,” she choked out on his next thrust.

Because he’d positioned her into providing her own echo chamber, but also _fuck_ why didn’t they do it this way more often he was going _so deep_ -

A hand smoothed along her spine. “Better?”

“ _Fuck_ yes,” she whined. “ _Please_ don’t stop.”

So his body folded down across hers, and he looped an arm around her middle to support a counterthrust; set up a steady grind — lips to her shoulder, teeth occasionally digging in…

And when his fingers pinched down on the sensitive nub between her legs, she came shuddering, her release so intense she actually saw stars for a moment as she howled his name into the cavern of her arms.

It took several beats for her to realize that they’d sunk to the floor in a heap; that he was spent and pressed against her back and pinning her to the rug with his full weight. His breath was rapid, but when she looked back over her shoulder she could see his eyelashes blinking.

“You ok?” she asked, amused, letting her head rest on her folded arms again. Martin turned his face toward her, and gave a slightly dazed smile.

“Yep,” he replied, popping the ‘p’ before kissing her shoulder and pushing up off of her with a low moan of exertion. He folded to the side and sprawled out next to her, supine. “You?” he asked in return, reaching over to massage the back of her leg.

Aunna grinned and wiggled slightly, settling into a blissful repose. “Yep.”

He smiled and turned toward the ceiling, eyes closing. The hand still resting on her haunch slid its thumb idly across the curve of it. She observed him a moment, noting the occasional flicker of movement beneath his lids.

“What's on your mind?”

Martin slit his eyes open in her direction. “Can we talk about what happened there?” he asked.

Aunna propped her head up on a fist, and returned his pensive look with a delighted one. “You mean where I came so hard I think I actually blacked out a bit? Because…”

She made a quick exhalation, almost a _whoof_. His right fist raised toward the ceiling in a gesture of personal victory. When she gave his shoulder a playful shove in response, he laughed. When her left hand came to rest on his chest, just above his heart, he stilled and covered it with his right, meeting her gaze.

She gave him a permissive nod: _Go on_.

“I’ve never heard you beg,” he said.

She snorted derisively. “Probably because I don’t.”

“I know,” he agreed, honestly. “And yet…”

She averted her eyes then; in thought, not shame. Eventually she replied with, “You used to do this thing, back in Burbank. I couldn’t put my finger on it before, because it was _very_ situational, and only seemed to happen when we were at _your_ place…”

She slanted her gaze toward him as she trailed off, looking pensive. Her hand slipped out from under his to cover it instead.

“I swear Martin, sometimes you wield your confidence like a weapon, and it sends me places.” Her expression smoothed into something wry, verging on embarrassed. “When you did it tonight? I wanted more, but I kinda overshot.”

His face went thoughtful, and he lifted the hand off her backside to prop up on it, mirroring her.

“‘Overshot’?” he repeated.

She shrugged her free shoulder, watched him wrap their hands together between them.

“‘Like a weapon’?” he added, grinning, encouraging her forward.

“I’m a Veteran,” she replied, tipping to kiss him. “Take the compliment.”

His lips parted to the press of hers, and he clenched the hands between them when she sighed into his mouth; eased away with a small inhalation, and pressed his forehead to hers.

“‘Baby’?”

Her eyes crossed when they opened meeting his. She pulled back with a huff.

“You started it,” she chided. “‘Sweetheart’.”

Martin looked sheepish, then recovered and shrugged it off. “If you don’t like it-”

“Never said that,” Aunna cut across him, tugging her hand free to poke him in the chest, laughing. “Let’s put that to rest right now. What I said was ‘You started it’, which is _absolutely accurate_.”

He captured her hand again. “Fine,” he said, and pulled the fingers to his lips, kissing them. “But you’re ok with it?”

Her head slid down her forearm as she straightened it out, smiling serenely as it came to rest in her elbow. “Yes, Martin,” she said. “I’m ok with it.”

* * *

He _did_ revamp the downstairs office that summer. And she let him. Because he insisted he had little else to do, really, and sheoccasionally had clients to entertain.

They updated the sitting room together in the fall. Because it turned out home renovation was _absolutely_ a turn-on when there was demolition involved.

The cellar became a gym the following spring. Because _Are you fucking_ _kidding_ _me right now, Martin? How is it you don’t know more than basic self defense?_

All rooms were christened accordingly.

**Author's Note:**

> Aunna & Martin's story continues in the 'Just Another Future Song' series with 'Of Sweet Talking, Night Walking Games'.
> 
> Kudos are love :) Comments are moderated (for spam, not content), but always welcome. :)


End file.
